On
the back of it was printed, in tarnished gold letters, 'Common
Prayer.'
It was a very little book, but the Colonel was obliged to hold it
with both hands. Even then they trembled so that he could hardly
turn to the fly-leaf. His eyes filled as he read there, 'Evelyn
Starr from John Starr, December 5th, 1855,' and remembered when he
had written that. Still the shadows crept eastward, the mynas
chattered in the garden, the scent of the roses came across warm in
the sun. The Rajputs looked at him curiously, but no one spoke.
The Colonel's eyes were fixed upon Sunni's face. He made one or
two efforts to speak that did not succeed. Then 'And this is the
baby,' he said.
'Hazur, ha!'[1] replied Tooni, 'Sonny Sahib hai!'
[1] 'Your Honour, yes. It is Sonny Sahib.'
The Colonel looked at Sunni an instant longer, and the boy smiled
into his face. 'Yes,' said he assuredly, with a deep breath, 'it
is Sonny Sahib.'
'The woman saw your honour this morning, and the khaber was brought
to me then,' remarked the Maharajah complacently.
It was three weeks, after all, before the Maharajah of Chita was
satisfactorily arranged. For three weeks Thomas Jones indulged in
roast kid and curry every day from Lalpore, and Lieutenant Pink,
having no more warlike way of amusing himself, made sanguinary
water-colour sketches of the city to send home to the Misses Pink
in England.
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